


Hunger for Your Touch

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Casual Sex, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8232821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: Of course it’s not the first thought that crosses his mind when he loses the arm, but. Well.He really did like those smooth hard metal fingers a lot, is all.The new arm looks similar but feels different. Lighter. Its nerve sensors and pressure pads are more sensitive, and the surface adapts to his body temperature, which takes some getting used to. The first time he runs one of its fingers down his crack and over his hole, his entire body jerks.“Oh,” he gasps, surprised, and does it again.





	

 

As the Soldier, he never felt pleasure. He felt many other things—fear, confusion. Hunger. Pain. But never pleasure.

Which is why, in Bucharest, Bucky figures he’s allowed to indulge himself a little. Little things, like sleeping on a mattress and, eventually, under a nice soft blanket. Or showering until the water’s about to run cold (never, _never_ longer than that). Books, when he remembers he used to like reading. Fresh, ripe fruit and sweet, sweet coffee, once he’s able to go to crowded places and look people in the eye and talk to them and smile.

And, later: The feeling of some stranger’s warm mouth around his dick, or, still later, the taste and weight of some stranger’s dick on his tongue. Touching himself, fingering himself open. Using the arm they grafted onto him to make himself feel so fucking good.

Little things. Simple pleasures.

 

Of course it’s not the _first_ thought that crosses his mind when he loses the arm, but. Well.

He really did like those smooth hard metal fingers a lot, is all.

 

The new arm looks similar but feels different. Lighter. Its nerve sensors and pressure pads are more sensitive, and the surface adapts to his body temperature, which takes some getting used to. The first time he runs one of its fingers down his crack and over his hole, his entire body jerks.

“Oh,” he gasps, surprised, and does it again.

It feels good. Fuck, it feels good. He always enjoyed the initial cold shock of his previous fingers, but this, this is. It’s. The fingers are smooth and hard inside him and he can feel exactly how hot and tight he is around them, and it’s making him flush with heat.

He doesn’t even mean to get off on just this. What happens is that he’s so full of this feeling, so overwhelmed by it, that he can’t think about anything else. The feeling keeps on building and building inside him as he works himself open, slides his slicked-up fingers in and out of himself, faster, harder, fucks himself on them, rubs that spot inside him until he has to sink his teeth into his bottom lip to hold back the noises. It’s only when he’s lying there breathless and sweaty and spent, trembling, that he realizes he never even touched his dick.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sex with Sam is—

Well, it’s not a little thing, and it’s definitely not a _simple_ pleasure. But it’s a thing, all right, and it’s definitely, definitely a pleasure.

Bucky doesn’t know why Sam wants to have sex with him. He tries not to think too hard about it. He’s sure as hell not going to ask Sam why, because he likes having sex with Sam and asking Sam why he likes having sex with Bucky might make Sam think too hard about it.

Whatever. After arguably seventy years without nice things, Bucky sure as hell ain’t gonna try and jinx this.

He and Sam engaged in approximately ten conversations before they started engaging in sex as well, which is a new personal record for Bucky (at least in this century). His previous record was one or at most two conversations, if one person murmuring _Vino afar_ _ă_ _cu mine_ and the other person tilting their head to the side and nodding or shrugging one shoulder counts as having a conversation. Which it totally does, in Bucky’s opinion.

The thing is, none of those people ever knew about the arm. He never went with them, never took anyone back to his place. It was all hurried mutual handjobs pressed up against rough brick walls and getting home alone, throat sore, the knees of his jeans stained with alley grime. Wouldn’t have been beneficial to the process to whip out a metal limb and insist that the fingers feel real fuckin’ great wrapped around your dick or shoved up your ass, no, seriously, _lasa-ma sa-ti arat_.

Sam does know about the arm, knew about it beforehand, which. Well. It opens up possibilities, is what it does.

Still, Bucky doesn’t want to scare Sam off, so he doesn’t broach the subject right away. Sticks to the more tried-and-true methods, at first. Jerks Sam off and lets Sam jerk him off in the bathroom. Slips into Sam’s room at night to suck Sam off and let Sam suck him off. Slinks back to his own bed afterward, and falls asleep still feeling sated and loose-limbed.

(Maybe that’s why Sam wants to have sex with Bucky. Stress relief. He clearly needs it, carries himself with so much tension it hurts Bucky’s neck and shoulders to look at him sometimes. Bucky can’t relate—he likes the term ‘safe house’, likes how it’s a compound word made up of two concepts that feel shiny and new to this version of him—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get it. Sam is the kind of person who should never be caged.)

And then, finally: “Is that even comfortable?” Sam asks when Bucky sits back on his heels and absently squeezes the base of his dick with his left hand.

It takes Bucky a second to understand what Sam means. When the words register, his dick twitches in his grip. “Man,” he says, trying not to laugh. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Really,” Sam says. He looks amused, but not averse to the idea. Intrigued, maybe.

“Yeah, really,” Bucky says, moving his hand up and down his dick by way of demonstration. The hand feels as good as it always does, smooth and hard and warm. It’s so different from the soft friction of his other hand, or the tantalizing wet heat of Sam’s mouth. He almost moans, bites down on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sound.

Sam pushes up onto his elbows. “Don’t,” he says, reaching out to put his hand on Bucky’s thigh. Bucky arches into the touch. “Don’t hold back.”

He does this sometimes, touch Bucky like he’s something precious. Talk to him in a low voice and watch him fondly from under those long dark eyelashes. It’s unbearable.

Sometimes looking at Sam is like looking into the sun.

“Everyone’s asleep,” Bucky says.

“I don’t care,” Sam says, with one of those slow-spreading smiles that makes Bucky need to look away, “I wanna hear you,” and, well, who is Bucky to deny someone like Sam anything.

He stays where he is, knees on either side of Sam’s body. Tilts his head back and lets his mouth fall open as he strokes himself, showing off a little. His dick’s been leaking precome, and it’s a smooth slide, and it feels so damn good, and Sam is lying there, still casually pushed up onto one elbow, watching Bucky from under long dark eyelashes—

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky says under his breath. He hangs his head, hair falling into his face.

Sam gives Bucky’s thigh a gentle squeeze. “Let me hear you,” he says, in the same low voice as before.

Bucky moans. He tips forward, catching himself with his free hand. “God, Sam, it feels so good,” he tells Sam, thrusting into the tight circle of his fist, bright little bursts of pleasure crackling up his spine, “so fucking, seriously, you gotta, you need to feel this, I want to…”

He doesn’t really notice the loose damp strands of hair that are sticking to his cheeks and getting in his eyes until Sam falls back into the pillows and reaches for Bucky’s head. Combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, tucks the strands behind his ears. Takes Bucky’s face between his big warm hands and presses his thumb to the corner of Bucky’s slack mouth.

“Show me,” Sam murmurs, “show me how good it feels,” and it’s not _enough_ , Bucky wants him to feel it, to feel this. He groans, frustrated, and then his breath catches in his throat when a wave of pleasure overtakes him. It starts low in his stomach and spreads everywhere from there, to the tips of his toes and the back of his neck where his skin is prickling with sweat. Another wave follows right after, and suddenly he’s coming, eyes closed, gasping, Sam’s hands still cradling his head.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says once Bucky’s gone limp on top of him. He’s trailing his fingers up and down Bucky’s back. Bucky makes an inquisitive noise but stays very still. “I believe it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a little nerve-racking, using the hand on someone else. The hand is great, but it’s strong. Even this one, the new one, was built for war, not love. When he’s using it on someone else, Bucky can’t feel if it’s uncomfortable, or if he’s moving too fast, or if he’s using enough lube. He can’t be absolutely sure he’s not hurting Sam.

“You can go faster, if you want,” Sam says hoarsely.

“Okay,” Bucky says, but he doesn’t. Going fast isn’t the point anyway. The point is to make Sam feel good. Feel how good this is. Besides, Bucky can’t think of a single reason why he’d even want to go faster. He’s got nowhere else to be, and he’s perfectly content right here, kneeling behind Sam, watching the beautiful skin of Sam’s back ripple with every movement he makes.

“Fuck,” Sam says. His voice sounds a little choked. “You sure weren’t kidding when you said…”

“Nope,” Bucky says. He twists his fingers in deeper.

Sam gasps, shivers. “Fuck,” he says again.

“Tell me,” Bucky says, because two can play at that game. “Tell me what it feels like.”

Sam lets out a breathy laugh. “Like getting finger-banged by a sentient dildo,” he says. “Shit, man, you should let them install haptic feedback elements.”

It’s not a bad idea. He’d have to come up with a reason, a believable cover story, but. It’d be worth it, probably.

“You’d like that, huh.” Bucky slowly retracts his fingers and then slides them back into Sam even more slowly, all the way to the knuckle.

Sam shudders, the muscles of his back shifting. Beautiful. He’d started out on all fours, but he’s lowered himself onto his elbows at some point when Bucky’s attention was elsewhere. Now he’s clasping his hands together and resting his forehead on them as he pushes back against Bucky’s hand, gasping, “Oh my god.”

“Yeah?” Bucky says, pressing down.

Sam shudders again. “Oh, fuck, yeah.”

He’s so beautiful, and the noises he’s making are so damn beautiful. Bucky wants to hear more of them. He reaches for Sam’s dick with his other hand. It’s fully hard, wet at the tip.

“I’ll come,” Sam says breathlessly. “If you touch me now I’ll come.”

“That’s the goal,” Bucky says, dragging his thumb over the head of Sam’s dick. It twitches against his palm, and Sam’s hips twitch forward when Bucky thrusts his fingers into Sam again, a little harder this time. Starts setting a rhythm.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam groans. His skin is beginning to glisten with sweat. “You sure as hell weren’t kidding about that hand of yours.”

“I never kid,” Bucky says in a dry voice, but Sam doesn’t respond, just keeps on letting out all these beautiful noises as he fucks himself on Bucky’s metal fingers. Bucky waits for the right moment, and then he switches it up—pulls his metal fingers out of Sam and immediately slides two fingers of his other hand inside, wraps his metal hand around Sam’s dick instead.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Sam says, thrusting into Bucky’s hand, “holy shit,” and when he comes he moans Bucky’s name in a way that makes the tips of Bucky’s ears burn.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One time, in the heat of the moment, Sam shoves his hands into Bucky’s hair, and Bucky goes completely still and comes just like that.

Sam hasn’t come yet, so Bucky, dazed, slides down his body and goes down on him, sucks the tip of Sam’s dick into his mouth. Sam is touching his hair again, gently, and oh, oh. Bucky moans, his eyes closing of their own accord. Sam’s fingers flex against his skull, and it’s good, god, it feels good, how is this so _good_. It’s making him feel warm and shivery all over in a way that seems to have very little to do with sex.

Bucky draws out the blowjob as long as possible, until he’s half hard again and rutting his hips against the mattress. After swallowing Sam’s come he makes a calculated decision to crawl up Sam’s body again and flop down on top of him, hiding his face in the curve of Sam’s shoulder.

The move pays off. Sam’s chest vibrates with a laugh. One of his hands cups Bucky’s neck, thumb stroking along the skin behind Bucky’s ear, just under his hairline, and. Oh.

 _Oh_.

“That good, huh,” Sam says. He starts running his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

Sam is referring to the sex, Bucky realizes after what feels like ages. Not the hair touching.

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is hoarse. He’s afraid to nod. He doesn’t want Sam to stop touching him like this. Doesn’t want Sam to ever stop touching him like this.

Sam’s hand comes to a rest on the back of Bucky’s head. His fingers continue to rub Bucky’s scalp, massaging it in slow, deep circles.

Bucky closes his eyes. Another shiver runs down his spine. His skin is breaking out in goosebumps but he’s not, he’s, it’s just.

Why does this feel so. So.

“You cold?” Sam asks, because he’s too perceptive and considerate for his own and Bucky’s good. He’s already starting to move under Bucky, getting ready to pull away and go retrieve the covers.

Bucky feels an irrational and profoundly embarrassing stab of panic.

“No,” he says, digging his fingers into Sam’s shoulder. It doesn’t sound like _No, I’m not cold_ ; it sounds like _No, don’t move_ , harsh and almost a little desperate. It’s not the way he meant for it to come out. He feels another stab of emotion, something heavy and complex. Something he doesn’t like.

“All right,” Sam says soothingly. He’s stopped massaging Bucky’s scalp, and for a second Bucky is convinced that he fucked up, fucked this up, fucked it all up, but then Sam starts running his fingers through Bucky’s hair again.

Oh.

Bucky closes his eyes again. Breathes out.

He doesn’t know whether it’s the feeling of Sam’s fingers combing through his hair or the steady beat of Sam’s heart under his cheek that eventually lulls him to sleep.

 

After that, Bucky tries to get Sam to touch his hair more often.

It’s not easy. Some people hold each other’s heads while they kiss, but Sam usually rests his hands on Bucky’s waist or his shoulders instead. Which is nice as well, but now that he knows what it feels like when Sam touches his hair—not just a fleeting caress during a blowjob; touches it, really touches it, runs his fingers through it, plays with it—Bucky wants _more_.

Outside of the bedroom, Sam doesn’t touch Bucky all that much at all. Only inadvertently or when he needs to, like when he’s passing the salt or when Bucky is standing in his way. His fingertips will brush against Bucky’s, or he’ll touch Bucky’s arm or his hip, a light, friendly touch. That’s about it.

It’s unlikely that Sam will randomly stop to give Bucky a head massage on his way to grab a drink or a snack, Bucky knows that, but he figures it’s worth a shot anyway.

It doesn’t work. Sam only touches Bucky twice, fleetingly (elbow and hip, respectively). Steve makes it awkward by saying, “What are you blocking the way to the kitchen for, Buck?” and both he and Sam get pretty cranky about the whole thing after a while, especially when it’s time to start preparing dinner and Steve manages to trip over Bucky’s foot and almost spill a pot of boiling water all over himself.

Klutz.

There’s also only so much salt Bucky can sprinkle on his steak. He needs a different approach.

How is he going to get Sam to touch his hair.

He can’t just go shoving his head into Sam’s hands while they’re on their morning run. And they’re probably too old for, what’s the word, roughhousing. Not that anyone in their right mind would want to roughhouse with Bucky anyway. The last time Steve roughhoused with Bucky he’d ended up at the bottom of an elevator shaft and the last time Sam roughhoused with Bucky he’d almost gotten his beautiful face ripped off. Before that, there were crushed eye sockets and broken wings.

It’s not a great track record.

Bucky gets lost in his own mind for a little while, mulling it all over. He comes back to himself—he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, staring at the television—when a hand touches the back of his head and Sam’s voice says, “Hey, you all right?”

Sam. Touching the back of Bucky’s head.

Bucky doesn’t breathe.

“Yeah,” he says. “Fine.”

Sam circles around the couch to sit down next to him. “You haven’t said a word since dinner.”

Bucky shrugs. He watches as Sam picks up the remote, turns up the sound a little.

“You can change the channel, if you want,” Bucky says. “I wasn’t really watching.”

He unfolds his legs, hugs them to his chest instead. Sam isn’t close enough for their arms to be brushing against each other, but he’s close enough for Bucky to smell him. Close enough for Bucky to want him closer.

Bucky shifts a little.

Sam puts the remote down again. He sits back, makes himself comfortable. His arm is slung over the back of the couch. Bucky can hear him breathe deeply and evenly. He seems at ease. That’s good.

Bucky could lean backward. There’s a chance that Sam’s thumb would brush against the hair at the nape of his neck if he did. It’d be something. It’d be better than nothing.

But if Bucky moved closer, pressed his cheek to Sam’s shoulder, maybe Sam would…

Would he?

Maybe.

Bucky moves closer to Sam. Very, very carefully presses his cheek to Sam’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Sam says in a low voice. He sounds surprised, but not displeased. From the corner of his eye Bucky can see that the hand Sam had lying on the back of the couch is now raised, hovering in the air.

Bucky closes his eyes and nuzzles closer. Holds his breath.

Sam starts stroking Bucky’s hair. His movements are gentle, careful. He doesn’t stop, keeps combing his fingers through Bucky’s hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him. Like this is something they do all the time.

Bucky breathes out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not—

Bucky is not _obsessed_ with Sam’s hands. He just likes Sam’s hands a lot. Sam’s hands are soft and strong and they touch him with kindness. So do everyone else’s, these days, but Sam’s hands are attached to Sam, which makes all the difference.

One time Sam threads their fingers together and pins Bucky’s hands above his head while they fuck. Sam’s grip tightens and loosens with each slow, thorough thrust of his hips, and both of Bucky’s hands still feel cold long after Sam has let go of them.

 

Tricking Sam into holding his hand is even more difficult than tricking Sam into touching his hair. Bucky tries laying his hand down, palm up, and waiting for Sam to grab it, but the approach proves unsuccessful. The closest it comes to being successful is when Sam accidentally sits down on Bucky’s wrist and apologizes.

Bucky starts strategically positioning himself in-between Sam and things he thinks Sam might want to have in the foreseeable future. Hands Sam his phone or a hoodie or the morning newspaper and holds on just a little longer than necessary, the tips of their fingers grazing against each other. So close yet so far away.

Frustrating.

Maybe he should do the same thing he did with the hair touching. Wait for Sam to join him on the couch and then strike. But when the moment finally presents itself, Bucky doesn’t seize it. It might be weird to do it right here, in full view of everybody. He needs cover.

By now Bucky has gotten into the habit of sitting next to Sam at dinner, on Sam’s left, and casually laying down his right hand between their plates as often as possible. Sam never grabs it.

Maybe Bucky should…

He slowly pulls back his hand, puts it in his lap. Waits for a minute, and then—very, very carefully—reaches for Sam’s thigh.

At first there’s no reaction from Sam at all. He doesn’t look at Bucky. His leg muscles don’t even shift under Bucky’s touch.

Then, one of his hands slips under the table.

Bucky’s heart starts beating faster. His face feels hot.

Sam’s fingers curl around his, warm.

And then, without as much as a glance in Bucky’s direction, Sam pushes Bucky’s hand away. No one seems to notice. Sam just continues to talk with Clint like nothing happened.

The crushing weight of embarrassment is almost too much to bear. Bucky’s chest goes tight with it. For a second it’s like he can’t breathe around the feeling. He ducks his head and focuses on finishing his food. It seems to stick in his throat a couple of times, and he has to swallow hard to force it down. When he’s done eating he gets up and puts his plate in the sink and retreats to his room.

His heart’s still beating too fast. He doesn’t like this feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t like it at all.

 

He’s sitting on his bed with a book when he hears the floorboards in the hallway creak. Footsteps leading up to his door, stopping there. A knock. The sound of the knob turning. Bucky looks up, hoping it’s Steve and knowing it’s not.

“Hey, man,” Sam says. He leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms over his chest. Inconsiderate. “You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

Bucky swallows. Swallows again. “What?” he says.

Sam gives him a blank look. “At dinner,” he says. “Seriously, trying to start something at the kitchen table? You know I really like you, but with everyone right—”

“I wasn’t trying to start something,” Bucky says over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“I _wasn’t_ ,” Bucky says.

“Then what were you trying to do?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says defensively. “Just forget about it.”

Sam’s not going to forget about it. Sam’s going to stand there and inconsiderately keep his arms crossed until Bucky tells him, because Sam is a stubborn asshole.

A stubborn asshole who really likes Bucky.

What does that even mean.

And why’d Sam say _you know_. How the hell was Bucky supposed to know.

“I just wanted to hold your hand,” Bucky says, and the horrible feeling is back, clinging to the inside of his stomach. He has to look down and swallow again. It’s pathetic. He can’t bring himself to look back up at Sam, stares hard at the pages of his book instead. Pretends not to notice that Sam is moving into the room, making his way over to the bed.

“Hey,” Sam says. He’s very close now. “Bucky.”

Bucky puts down his book. Looks up.

“I’m not a mind reader, okay,” Sam tells him. “You gotta let me know when you want something. Worst that could happen is I’d say no.”

 _I don’t want_ , Bucky almost says, it’s on the tip of his tongue, outdated self-preservation protocols reflexively kicking in—but then he realizes that Sam is just repeating the verb he himself had used. _I just wanted to hold your hand_ , he’d said, and it’s true.

He does want things. He wants soft blankets, and hot showers, and books, and fresh fruit and sweet coffee. He wants Sam to play with his hair, to hold his hand. He wants Sam to want to play with his hair and hold his hand.

And apparently Sam wants that, because: “Feel like holding my hand while we watch TV?” Sam asks. “There’s this one movie Steve wants to see. Nat’s making popcorn.” He holds out his hand, palm up.

Bucky takes it. “I’d rather you play with my hair while we watch TV,” he says, hopeful.

Sam is smiling. “Good thing I’ve got two hands,” he says.

Bucky agrees.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [This is 100% Sebastian Stan’s fault.](http://jamesbucke.tumblr.com/post/152151117460/fan-question-outside-of-plum-shopping-and-writing)
> 
> If you enjoyed reading this, please consider making my week/year/existence by leaving a comment, even if it’s “just” a ❤ or a gif or a few words. And come be my friend [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com)! We can cry about Mackie's inconsiderate arms together.


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